


Repairs

by IceQueen1



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceQueen1/pseuds/IceQueen1
Summary: Steve brings by an old war buddy to meet the team. Except...apparently Bucky and Tony already know of one another. Non slash, emotional whump and Bucky/Steve feels. Mentions of PTSD and torture.Older piece before Winter Soldier, Civil War, and Age of Ultron. Bits and pieces of Bucky integrating with the team.





	1. Chapter 1

The war was never over for my father. A lot of people seem to forget that Howard Stark was in fact an active participant in World War II. Worked on the Manhattan Project. Supplied the Howling Commandos with all their toys. Reverse engineered what they brought back from Hydra. He was a hero. I remember that much. Unfortunately, that's about all I remember of him.

When he actually spoke to me, he never spoke to me like I was a child. He talked to me the same as he would any other adult on one of his projects. I'm not sure if he just wasn't a kid person (I know the feeling) or if he understood what so few others did – I was brilliant. I like to think it's probably a combination of the two.

I remember my mother with the same sense of vagueness – I don't remember being all that emotionally attached to them. In fairness, I wasn't that old when they died, and my father spent most of his time in a board room, the lab, or apparently looking for his old war buddy, Mr. Stars and Stripes himself and founding SHIELD. That last one I'm still on the fence about. My father wasn't that fond of corporations that weren't his own, and even less so of shadowy organizations with too many letters in their acronyms. I find it hard to believe he founded one of the worst ones I could think of.

Color me paranoid, but after the Cave, Obi, the government in general, and Rhodey, I wasn't all that surprised that SHIELD turned out to be a front for HYDRA.

Call me an ass, but I was actually secretly pleased about the fact that I was _right_. SHIELD was up to no good. Or at least, the controlling interest part of it. And of course, I knew Fury was a dick, but faking his death? That's low.

All of this pales in comparison to this moment.

The moment when Steve brings back an old war buddy.

An old war buddy that is the same age Steve is…and looks younger than me.

One with haunted eyes, a tendency to look away from everyone's face, and stands almost half a step behind Steve, like he's afraid we might do something to him.

I'd seen that look. I knew it well. I had it for months after the Cave. After New York. No one saw it except for me and on few occasions, Pepper and Rhodey.

Before Steve even launched into explanations, I could already imagine what made a friend of Steve's react like that. Especially an _old_ friend – one who likely knew him as 'Skinny Steve' rather than Captain America. You had to be beaten pretty low for that Steve to seem like a suitable shield. And this guy really doesn't look like he would need defending. He's braced for an explosion, hands in his pockets but loose enough that he can pull them out in an instant to fight. Long, dark brown hair is pulled messily back in a ponytail and underneath his ball cap, he looks like he hasn't smiled in years, and like he's expecting this introduction to the team to end badly for everyone.

And we weren't even the scary ones. Natasha and Clint were gone on a side mission trying to oust the last of the HYDRA sleeper agents, Thor was on Asgard with his girlfriend, and neither Bruce nor I were wearing our 'battle dress'. Bruce looked like an overstressed professor, wearing two sets of glasses – one on his face and one on his head – and I didn't think I looked all that bad. I didn't even have my reactor anymore, and as much as I hate to admit it, I was the smallest, most non-threatening person in the room.

"Guys, this is Bucky Barnes," Steve said, almost shyly. That itself is kind of funny, since Steve's not shy about his past. He gets quiet and somber some times, but more often he's been taking on a rather morbid humor about the fact that everyone he knows is dead or dying from old age. Speaking of which…Bucky's name sparks an instant recognition in both Bruce and I as we share looks.

 _The_ Bucky Barnes? Steve's best friend from childhood? The one who was supposedly killed during a mission falling from a train? _That_ Bucky Barnes? The name is ridiculous and seems unlikely there were two of them that shared best friend status with Steve.

Bruce reacts first. "Nice to meet you. We've heard a lot about you."

And we have – Bucky was his best friend growing up in Brooklyn, who watched out for him when he was all of seventy pounds with a list of health concerns that made you wonder how he lived long enough to get the serum. Every story about stupid, reckless youth had Bucky in it…as well as the story of the one friend he couldn't save.

Bucky's eyes widen for a moment, shooting an accusatory glance at Steve.

"You are my best friend, Buck. You think I wouldn't talk about you to new ones?" Steve said, and Bucky calms down. Slightly.

"Hi." It's all he says, his eyes looking around the shop like it's about to eat him.

"There's nothing that's going to get you in here," I said, waving absently around the lab. "We're not that kind of mad scientists."

Bucky looks somewhat reassured even as Bruce and Steve give me _that_ look, and I'm a little unsettled I accurately guessed his concern was _where_ we were, not _who_ we were.

It stands to reason – long should-be-dead buddy shows up, looking like he's been beaten to hell and back more than his fair share, and is still the same age as the genetically enhanced super soldier? Yeah, I'm guessing the poor kid has spent a lot of time in places like this, and probably had nothing good come of it.

Personally, I'm a little surprised I still find comfort down here.

"Buck, this is Dr. Banner," Steve says, nodding at Bruce who instantly corrects him to his first name.

"And this is Tony Stark, Howard's son," he says, his voice noticeably quieter than when he introduced Bruce. I'm not sure if it's out of respect for the dead, or because I hate that I'm always known as 'Howard's son' to Steve over 'Tony.' And it's still a little creepy that a 21 year old was friends with my dad when he was younger than I am now.

Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey.

I hold my hand out to Bucky, mostly out of curiosity and I'm surprised when he hesitantly takes it, though his grip is firm.

And then he freezes, his eyes glazing over as his grip tightens almost painfully around my hand and starts reciting like he's reading from a teleprompter. "Howard and Maria Stark. Car accident. Long Island Sound, 1991. Cut brakes, steering compromised. Hit by placed drivers on either side of intersection to insure death on impact as believable accident. Confirmed kill."

At first, I'm too stunned to speak, but it doesn't last long. "What the _fuck_ was that? What did you just say?" I glance at Steve and I realize he's not shocked. Or even a little surprised. He looks like Bucky just confirmed something he already knew. "What are you talking about? Rogers?"

Suddenly Bucky snaps back from wherever the hell he just went to, and tries to pull his hand away from mine. When it doesn't work, he reaches up with his other hand.

One made of metal.

And in one blinding moment of clarity, I realize that _this_ is my parents' murderer. I scrubbed every scrap of intel I could glean from SHIELD during the New York fiasco with Loki, and I found reports of my parents' death, alluding to some sort of shadow assassin no one could prove existed being the instrument of their destruction, referred to as the Winter Soldier. Grainy pictures followed, and all you could see was long-ish hair, everything from his forehead down obstructed by something a Batman villain would wear…and a silver, metal arm.

My vision washed out in red.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees, held back by an immovable force that was surprisingly gentle even as I pulled against it.

"Tony! STOP!" Bruce was shouting at me, and his voice, rarely above a soothing evenness unless the Other Guy is out, in my ear is enough to make the red disappear.

I'm breathing hard and my left hand stings. I don't know why until I look up and see Bucky and Steve on the ground, the former bent almost in half, his face pressed almost into his knees as both hands grasp the side of his head like he's trying to crush his own skull. There's no _way_ I hit him that hard. Steve looks like he wants to grab him, much in the same way Bruce grabbed me, but looks afraid to touch him. His hands hover uselessly and unsure over Bucky's shoulder.

As quickly as my anger surged, it's now gone. Bruce keeps his hands on my shoulders more as reassurance than restraint as we sit in stunned silence.

Steve is talking to Bucky, frantic and patient at the same time. "Come on, Buck. It's just me. You're fine. You're okay. Just breathe." A litany of soothing platitudes is never ending, and I watch as Bucky's rocking slows and abruptly stops.

I'm almost relieved, until I realize that Steve is still on high alert – the danger hasn't passed. A moment later I find out why, and I have about an eighth of a second to realize I'm about to die.

Bucky's head turns towards me, and where I once saw apprehension and a prey's desire for flight, a cold, harsh, _angry_ predator glares back. It's not Bucky looking at me. It's the Winter Soldier, and all trace of Bucky is gone. And then he lunges towards me, strong enough to shove Steve aside with that metal arm of his like he's nothing more than an insect. There's no yelling, or even growling, just cold, shark like eyes and all emotion gone from his face.

I'd seen death a hundred times.

Probably more.

It never had a face before.

I wanted to shut my eyes, but I couldn't, and in the next instant, I was really, _really_ glad that I was friends with Bruce… _and_ the Other Guy.

As Bucky lunged towards me, metal hand outstretched towards my neck that he could snap like a twig, he's stopped inches from me. Bruce's hand, a swirling shade of poisonous green, skin moving and blood bubbling as he fought to control the Hulk while still using his strength, grips his arm at the wrist just in front of my face.

" ** _Don't. Make. Me. Angry,_** " Bruce snarled, his voice combining with his alter ego's to create a horrific grinding noise mixed with human rage.

Bucky doesn't back down, and as much as I don't want to, I have to appreciate the tenacity. Just like I had to respect Loki for asking after the drink when he was slammed into the ground by the Hulk like a ragdoll. His lip curls up in a snarl of defiance, and I hear a crack and snap, like gears and metal grinding together as Bruce crushes the metal hand. Bucky's hand goes limp and there's a sharp bark of pain and surprise before I see the hate leech out of his eyes.

The Winter Soldier is gone and Bucky is back. Bucky's eyes widen in a mixture of shock, pain, and much more prominently, confusion, guilt and regret. He pulls his arm back in to his chest, cradling it protectively against himself.

I don't remember being able to read anybody that well, but when I look at Bucky's face…it's like it's written right in front of me, clear as words on a page.

Steve has got his arm around Bucky's shoulders and slowly eases him back with careful patience that speaks volumes about how many times he's had to do this before. I still can't find it in myself to move, but I can hear the deep, measured breaths Bruce takes as he forces the Hulk back down. The poisonous green fades from his skin, and I can just imagine the look of moderate pride that he's succeeded in controlling the Other Guy.

He's getting pretty good at it. I like to think I helped with that.

"Don't worry about it, Buck. We've been over this, right? It's just instinct, okay? You didn't mean it. Tony's fine, you're fine…" Steve's placating litany is back, and I don't know if it works on Bucky, but it's beginning to work on me.

"Why can't I remember…just _one_ good thing?" Bucky whispers, his thousand yard stare fixed somewhere no one else can see. "Just _once_ couldn't I remember something…decent? Why can't I remember Howard at the expo, instead of through the lens of a rifle?"

"We'll work on it, I promise," Steve says, and he says it so matter of factly, so 'of course we'll fix everything and it'll be like you were never broken' that it makes Bucky's eyes snap back to his. When Steve Rogers promises something, mountains will move. I can see Bucky _wants_ to believe. Badly. But I can see just as plainly the doubt that he'll be anything remotely close to human ever again.

I realize, in that moment, I am looking at what I would've become if it hadn't been for Yinsen, or the suit. If I hadn't escaped on my own, and if no one had ever found me…I would've been just as broken.

This was the man that murdered my parents.

He was the reason I was an orphan when I was twenty one.

He was responsible for countless deaths over a seventy year killing spree.

And yet…

When I looked at him, I couldn't find it in me to hate him. I saw the way that he and Steve looked at one another. Steve saw in Bucky the man who went to war for him. Who watched after him when he found himself alone. The one friend he couldn't save back then.

 _Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky_.

Bucky was a soldier. A soldier that had no choice in his actions, and judging by the haunted look of self-loathing in his eyes, deeply regretted them. I couldn't be any angrier with him than I could be at myself for the events that led up the creation of Iron Man and the deaths it caused.

But…you can't change the past. I know this better than most.

I pat Bruce's hand reassuringly before I sit forwards, moving slower than necessary, holding out my hand.

"Let me see," I say, gesturing towards the ruined metal arm.

Steve looks more hopeful than a little kid holding a free to a good home puppy he found in a box in an alley, and I try not to roll my eyes. I keep my hand out, patiently waiting.

Bucky looks dubious, and he shoots a questioning glance at Steve, who nods encouragingly.

"Tony is a hundred times better at this than Howard. I think he's probably made hundreds of Iron Man suits now."

I smile brilliantly at the compliment, trying to show Bucky no harm, no foul. "I can make this thing look _way_ better."

Bucky glances down at his metal arm, crushed in the shape of fingers around the wrist. "Can you…" he licks his lips, the first real sign of nervousness I've seen since he walked in the lab. "Can you get rid of it?"

I frown, but shrug anyway. "Sure. If that's what you want. But I can also just replace it with something that looks…like you." I'd been about to say human, but realized that was a horrible word choice. "I bet you don't really want to run around with just one arm, right? Prosthetics have come a long way, and that thing is archaic. Hell, I had pretty much a prosthetic heart until recently. Give me a day, and I'll have you back to your old self. Mostly, anyway. Speaking of which, I doubt you've seen many movies lately. I should get you to watch this awesome kids' movie about a kid and his dragon. I think you'd appreciate the comparison."

I hold my hand out again, expectantly and tried to ignore the cautious glimpse of hope in Bucky's eyes. I can imagine he's had very few people tell him he's had a choice in anything in the last seventy years. If there was hope for me, there was hope for him.

"Come on. Let's see what I'm working with here."

Slowly, carefully, Bucky held his hand out, and I can hear the grind of nerves as the prosthetic tries to move his fingers and compensate for the shift in position.

Definitely needs replacing.

I wait until he's put his hand in mine before I start examining it. For being a fossil, it was rather impressive. I needed to do some more digging around in the stolen files from the helicarrier to see if I could find anything on how it was made. I carefully move it, twisting it this way and that way to see the range of motion he had and where I could improve it.

"I wonder if I can make you and Steve into a matching set and give you a set of stars and stripes your own. The star of communism has got to go." I made sure to look Bucky in the eyes before my next words.

"Come on, buddy. Let's get you fixed up."


	2. Chapter 2

Machines were always my "thing". As much as I talk, I'm terrible with people. I say too much, I'm too blunt, or I pick conversation topics no one can follow. It took me a while to realize not everyone could become an expert on quantum mechanics overnight or extrapolate data from complex code to adapt to an Artificial Intelligence like JARVIS.

I could talk to Pepper, and to Rhodey, because they always pulled me back down to Earth when I started rambling. They could give as good as they got, and they're some of the best people I've ever run into, and they were all I needed for friends.

Now I have new ones – and Bruce is my favorite. He can keep pace with me in everything, and unlike the rest of the Avengers, he's actually my age. Grew up on Earth, lead a relatively normal life up until shortly before I became Iron Man. It's nice not to have to explain science, or even things like 80's. Don't get me wrong, I like the others. They're a bizarre, super powered super family. But Steve is a little _too_ good, and Thor is a little _too_ alien, and Natasha and Clint are a little _too_ SHIELD.

I have no idea where to classify Bucky Barnes.

We're in the lab, and he's sitting across from me, his broken mechanical arm curled in his lap as he hunches over on his stool. He doesn't say anything, and I can tell he tries not to look at me, but every once in a while, I feel his eyes on me. I pretend not to notice.

For once, I don't have my music up ten decibels above the normal tolerance of a human being. AC/DC and Metallica play in the background just loud enough that it's not dead silence. The only reason Steve and Bruce have left us alone is they actually require sleep somewhere besides the lab floor, and it's the dead of night. Bucky had left for maybe thirty minutes tops, when Steve left, but came back. I can only guess he stayed just long enough to make sure Steve was out before he snuck back to the lab.

I've suffered insomnia since I was a kid. Bucky looks like he'd rather die than sleep. Or maybe he just doesn't want to speak up and ask if he has a place to sleep besides in here. I'm a poor judge of most people, and truth be told, I'm a little cautious to say anything. He's sort of beginning to relax, and I don't push him to talk. Instead of staring blankly straight ahead, he looks around the lab. I have no idea how much of it is a leap in technology like it was for Steve – 1940's to 2011 seemingly overnight. From what Steve and Natasha told us, it sounds more like Bucky was woken up sporadically when HYDRA needed him, which explains why he's still in his early thirties, but he doesn't seem overwhelmed with the modern world.

I have a display up in front of me, outlining the mechanical arm Bucky currently has, and for a relic, it's pretty damn impressive. It routes nerves and biological functions into machinery, so while he can't feel pain like he does with his flesh and bone hand, he can move it like it's a regular arm. I haven't had much experience with biomechanical engineering, but HYDRA's old files are more than enough of a stepping stone. It helps that I'm fairly positive this is stolen Stark Industries technology, and I recognize it better than some family members.

I pull and drag bits and pieces of the blueprint that I want to keep or throw away, outlining it briefly in synthetic skin, but the look is all wrong and I trash it almost immediately. I have the prototype in my lap, which I'm currently fiddling with, adjusting it even as I design it on the display.

"You know, you look just like him."

My hand slips with the screwdriver and I almost impale my other hand in surprise. Apparently, Bucky talks. "What?"

"Howard. You look just like him," Bucky clarifies.

Ah. So that's why he keeps staring at me like that.

"Suave, debonair, devastatingly good looking?" I say, giving him a winning smirk. I look up in just enough time to see Bucky smirk out of one corner of his mouth and I mentally pump a victorious fist in the air. "So I've heard."

Bucky chuckled. "You're both arrogant asses, too." I didn't mind the slip into present tense, I've gotten used to it from Steve. But it bothers Bucky, and instantly that ghost of a smile is gone, and he ducks his head. "Sorry. I didn't –"

I shrug. "Don't worry about it. Steve does it all the time. At least you don't actually _call_ me Howard. Or Maria. Maria would be more awkward."

Bucky's human hand fists tightly against his sweatshirt, pulling it on it for a moment before he absently starts hitting it against his knee. I know a nervous tick when I see one. "No, I mean sorry for…" he licks his lips, before starting again. "I'm sorry that I-"

It takes me longer than it should to realize what he's trying to apologize for. "Hey, hey, hey, no. I said don't worry about it, and I meant it, okay? It's in the past, it can't be changed. I know you would if you could, but none of us time travel. Except for Steve, but that's not really time travel."

"But it's my fault," Bucky insisted.

I sigh, and I pick up the prototype arm again. "Kid, we all do things that aren't that great. Bruce leveled Harlem. Thor caused an interplanetary race war. I let my machines and weapons fall into the wrong hands that caused the deaths of probably hundreds, if not thousands of people. Natasha torched a hospital for kids. Clint, while under the control of alien technology helped a deranged god almost destroy the planet. Shit happens. We know that, and we're not going to hold it against you."

Bucky's fist is still hitting his knee, and when I look up, he's not looking at me anymore. He's looking at his reflection in the table, and I wish maybe I had wooden table tops instead of reflective metal.

"You okay?" I ask. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go get Steve, or if Bucky needs a hug, or what. I have Pepper for this sort of thing. Hell, even JARVIS is better at being human than I am.

There's a short, bitter laugh, and I can see in his reflection that Bucky is biting his lower lip. "Howard was an asshole," he said. "He was an arrogant ass, and I blamed him for the longest time for what happened to Steve. I didn't want Steve to go to war. _I_ didn't want to go to war. But how do you tell a starry eyed kid like Steve Rogers, who wanted so badly to join but couldn't, that the only reason you're going to fight was because you were drafted?" Bucky took a deep shuddering breath, like he was counting to ten. "When I was captured in Germany, everyone had family to worry about. How they were going to take the news that we were dead. I worried about Steve – you didn't know him back then, but Jesus, _everything_ was dangerous to him. The cold, the damp, the _god-forsaken_ air…and that stupid little runt had the worst sense of self preservation. Always picking fights, always trying to do what everyone else could but he couldn't, but damn it all if he didn't try." Bucky laughed. "The last day we had together, when it was just _us_ , the day before I left for Germany, he tried to enlist for I think seventh time."

Bucky's face screwed up, like he was trying to piece together a particularly elusive memory. "That… _that_ was the first time we saw Howard. The Modern Marvels of Tomorrow. We were on a double date, but even then, the kid was still more interested in trying to enlist. I hated it, and I was so proud that he was _my_ friend. That skinny little kid who had more heart than anyone I had ever met, who wanted to go to war because he couldn't stand the idea of bullies."

I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to interrupt. This was a side of Steve I never knew, nor did anyone else, but we all could imagine it. I'd seen the file on Captain America more times than any other bed time story. Steve said Bucky was having problems with his memory, but so far he was barely stumbling. And these weren't Winter Soldier memories. They were _his_. They were Bucky Barnes.

"I thought Howard was one of those bullies. When the 107th was captured, we were forced to work designing and building these rockets they called Valkyries. I think…I think that's when I got sick. I remember it being freezing cold, and I remember the other guys trying to keep the guards from noticing me, but that's how I wound up in the isolation and experimentation ward. I remember…I remember a lot of needles. When I first saw Steve in that costume of his, I didn't think he was real. I thought I was dying, and that was the last thing I was going to see – Steve, healthy. Like he could live without me around. And I was okay with that."

It was hard to imagine, the man before me, seventy five years ago being tortured and experimented on by the enemy, and the last thing that he cared about was that his friend was going to live, without ever having a real chance to say good-bye. I didn't have anyone like that. Not until very recently.

"We had to walk thirty miles back to camp, and that's when Steve started telling me what happened. He had to drag me for most of the first part, so to keep me awake he told me everything. How he finally enlisted, how he went through training, and how he got picked to be this 'super soldier'. I caught most of it, but I remembered hearing about Stark. We saw Howard a lot at the front lines, more than I would've expected for a civilian. And up close and personal, he was a dick. Never followed any rules, was always flying off to Paris or someplace else whenever he felt like it. And he knew he was smarter than most of us, and I swear he liked to rub it in our faces, and he pushed people around a lot."

 _That_ sounds like Dad. Howard Stark was not a timid man, nor was he shy about letting everyone know he was always going to be the smartest guy in the room. Sometimes I wonder if I got _anything_ from my mother besides my height.

Bucky shook his head, and I could see that small smirk coming back. "Howard was a bully, but not to Steve. He told me how Howard flew thirty miles into enemy air space, in a private plane, against orders, to give Steve a chance at rescuing us. You didn't see that in the papers though."

I could see Bucky's hand slowly stop the rhythmic pounding motion against his leg, and he slowly unclenched his fist, staring at it like it held some long distant memory.

"Howard was a good friend to us. And what I remember, the one memory that I can play over and over in my head, is when I saw his body in the wreck on Long Island Sound." He slammed his open palm against the metal table, directly over his reflection.

I bite my cheek to not spit out the first thing that comes to my head, which is that that's the most vivid memory I have of them too.

"And the worst part…is that somewhere in my head, I'm _proud_ of a job well done."

I glance over at Bucky, and he looks like a man about to become undone. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth pressed into a thin line, even as I watch him try to control his breathing which is getting dangerously close to hyperventilation.

I have two options – wake Steve, or see if my own experience with panic attacks helps at all. I put down the partially created arm, and call out to JARVIS.

"JARVIS – bring up the footage from the Gulmira attacks."

"Yes, sir," the AI says, obligingly putting up several displays of my first round as Iron Man. The sound is low, but it's enough to get Bucky's attention.

Here goes nothing.

"I was a prisoner too," I say, and I feel like I'm a million miles away as I watch the screens play the destruction. "My father's best friend sold me out to a terrorist cell in the Middle East, people called the Ten Rings. The convoy I was on got hit with one of my own missiles." I pulled up a picture of a young soldier and I, sitting in the back of the Humvee, smiling with his fingers up in a peace sign. "This kid died trying to defend us. So did everyone else in the convoy."

Suddenly I'm not in my lab anymore. I'm in the Cave, in Afghanistan with Yinsen. "I first remember waking up in the middle of surgery when they were digging around inside my chest to pull out all the shrapnel from my heart." I rub absently at the dip in my sternum where the bone is missing, and only recently replaced with a plastic composite substitute. "They kept me alive to make me build one of my missiles. When I refused, they tortured me. Tried drowning me in a bath of ice water, electrocuting me, or just beating on me." I look down away from the images, and I see my reflection in the table top. I hate that it still bothers me almost a decade later. "You think you won't be the one to break, but you always do. I agreed to build the missile, but I built the Iron Man suit instead."

I hear Bucky give a low whistle of appreciation, but I'm not very proud of the things I did afterwards. "I didn't do what Steve did and become a superhero overnight. I killed whoever came across my path in my escape, destroying everything I could. When I got back to the states, I rebuilt the suit, and I went back over there. The Ten Rings were destroying a town called Gulmira." I let the footage play, and I could picture it like it was yesterday. Eruptions of flame and smoke, of going toe to toe with a panzer and walking away. I wasn't a killer, but it came remarkably easily to me.

When the footage faded to static, I swiped the images away, leaving the air in front of me clear of anything except the blue prints for Bucky's replacement arm.

"Did it help?" Bucky asked quietly.

"Not in the slightest." I glance up and Bucky's looking at me again, but this time I think he sees me instead of Howard. "I still wake up from nightmares from what _they_ did, and from what _I_ did." I tell Pepper and the others otherwise, but none of them have gone through what I did. I didn't choose to be a hero. I wasn't born into it, like Thor. I didn't pick it, like Steve. I wasn't a soldier like Tasha and Clint, taking orders from someone else.

I did it out of anger, and revenge. I was betrayed by the people I trusted, and no one saved me but myself. No one told me what to do, who to save, or how to do it.

As I look at Bucky, who looks like a broken mess of a human machine, I think he may understand it. The same man who marched into battle with Captain America was the same man who was tortured and broken and had no one to save him but himself.

Maybe he is what I would've become if I hadn't built the suit.

Maybe it's still what I will become.

I shrug myself out of my introspection, picking up the new arm. "So what do you think?"

"Will it work?"

I shrug. "Probably. It's a prototype. I _was_ going to make it able to use repulsor blasts, but with your anger issues, that might not be the best idea. Besides, you've still got flesh and blood attached to it. I don't know what repeatedly using that kind of force would do to your joints long term."

"I heal quickly," Bucky offers, though I'm not sure it's because he wants new toys or because he feels the need to point it out for the design purposes.

"And Steve will kill me. This is at least going to be much lighter weight, and you shouldn't have to compensate in the difference in weight like you're used to now. It'll be the same as your other arm. But uh…" I scratch the back of my head, and release belatedly how much grease I probably just rubbed off in my hair. "How does that one attach?"

Bucky looks surprised at the question, but he pulls his loose collar down around his shoulder so I can see.

The scarring is to be expected. I mean, he had his arm ripped off in a fall into a ravine from a speeding train. However, when I see the almost perfect fusion of metal to skin with no readily obvious way of removing it, I can't help but reach my hand out for it. I do it without thinking, running my fingers over the seams, trying to see how the skin meets metal and still functions. I pulled the collar further down to see how far down his shoulder and chest the metal went when it suddenly occurs to me that I should probably at least _ask_ if I can basically strip him so I can see.

I lean back, grabbing a screwdriver. "Hey, can you take your shirt off? I need to see how far it extends…" I trail off when I see the look Bucky is giving me. I can see two very, very different emotions warring across his face plain as day, and I wonder if he even realizes how easy he is to read. "Buck?"

Sheer panic gives way to wonderment, and Bucky shakes his head as if clearing it. "Sorry," he says quickly. "I'm just not used to anyone asking."

I backpedal so fast I almost trip over my chair. I'd completely spaced on the fact that the man in front of me was used to being a lab rat. Hell, he'd _just_ told me about being experimented on by the Nazis, and I was acting like he was a machine needing repairs and he was the one who apologized first. "Jeez, I'm sorry. I tend to get carried away with new projects, not that you're a project, but the arm, I mean _your_ arm and shit I'm just going to sit down and shut up."

I grab the prosthetic and almost violently stab it with the screwdriver, perfectly aware of the fact that my entire face is probably turning beet red. I say nothing else, and I work…passionately...on the new arm.

"Do you need a hand with that?"

There's _something_ in his voice that makes me look up, and I see Bucky smirking at me. Not a little corner of his mouth, but an actual shit eating grin. In his right hand, he's holding out his left arm.

"Do I need a hand…" I echo, and then the full impact hits and I can't stop laughing. Oh my God, my sides hurt from laughing, but I need it. And suddenly I can hear Bucky laughing too. Not nearly as manic as I sound, but he's obviously pleased with his pun, and really, I'm happy for anything that takes away that wounded, broken toy look.

"You could take that thing off the whole time?" I finally gasp, what seems like minutes later.

Bucky shrugs, and tosses the appendage towards me. "Well, yeah. It's not like I haven't broken it before."

"Why didn't you _say_ something?"

He shrugs again. "You didn't ask. I didn't know that's what you were trying to figure out, or I would've showed you sooner." He pulls down the neck of his sweatshirt so the entire port where his arm fits is visible. "Here."

"May I?" I ask, just to cover up from my previous faux pas.

"Go ahead. Just…don't lean towards my face, okay?"

It's here and now that I glimpse what Bucky must've been like when he was just Bucky and Steve was just Steve. This is the kid who made friends with the scrawny, sickly waif next door, when he was probably _That Guy_ – girls wanted him, boys wanted to _be_ him. And he still has that part of him, that disarming smirk, that way of speaking to put you at ease, gently warning against something, that part that while damaged by HYDRA is still there.

"Got it."

Seven hours later, I had a working prototype, and I was introducing Bucky to the wonders of technology in the modern age and how they could be used for fun. Turns out that while Steve was always running off to pick fights, Bucky was the kind of guy who went to science fairs for date night, and he actually _likes_ science.

Steve and Bruce found us in the middle of the lab, passed out next to our coffee mugs, but Bucky has his brand new, naturally weighted arm.


	3. Chapter 3

It was months before Bucky actually came on a mission with us. Not because we told him he couldn't, and not because SHIELD said so, but because Bucky still didn't trust himself.

Well, that's what he told us, anyway. I'm pretty sure the way that Steve doesn't push it, doesn't bat an eye or try and coerce him by telling him that he's no longer the Winter Soldier that it has nothing to do with personal faith. I'd be willing to bet the new suit it was because Bucky was sick of fighting, and he didn't care who it was for.

I can sympathize. I'm not a natural born soldier either. But I have a lot more sins to make up for, most of which were made of my own free will, not the behest of deranged Nazi scientists.

Bucky really _has_ made progress. In leaps and bounds, actually. Turns out the guy is a natural born prankster. And good God, I thought Clint was bad? No. No, he's vanilla compared to the Dynamic Duo of Steve and Bucky when they're together. Even more surprising is that Steve is the instigator, and Bucky is the enabler.

I swear, if itching powder winds up in my suit again, I'm reprogramming JARVIS to put dye in their showers. I'm sure they'd be adorable as Smurfs.

He's also much less inept at the 21st century than Steve. He's functional with electronics, he can at least figure out texting, and can usually convince JARVIS to give him cheat codes to the Tower when he can't figure something out on his own. It's not that he's smarter than Steve, which Clint made the mistake of assuming, it's that he's naturally interested in science. He _likes_ technology, unlike Steve who hisses at a cellphone when it doesn't do what he wants.

The fact that things were going along fine should've been a sign that shit was going to hit the fan.

Intel was bad. I was going to shoot our new Director when I got a chance. Coulson was typically better than this. I didn't worry so much about our missions once he took over from Fury. I thought Coulson would at least have a better feel for the Boots on the Ground than our previous 'The Ends Justify the Means' director.

I guess that was hoping for too much.

It was supposed to be a relatively standard op. Bad guys. Bad guys with guns. Bad guys with guns who wanted to steal some sort of weapons technology.

I suppose it was our fault for thinking they wanted to steal more guns.

They didn't want guns.

They wanted _them_.

Captain America and the Winter Soldier – two genetically altered super soldiers, the only ones of their kind.

And apparently the top of the most wanted lists for international bad guys.

We didn't have Bruce or Thor, which is probably what made them think this would be an easy snatch – nothing but us poor mortal beings as back up for Steve and Bucky, and they came prepared for us. Clint and Natasha were fending off heavy artillery attack from the high ground, and these guys actually thought to bring a mobile EMP device.

My suit was down, and so was I – whatever they did to it locked it solid rendering it about as useful as a statue. I may bring spare parts, but I did _not_ have a spare suit on me. Not for a simple heist like the one described. All I could do was use one the suit's detachable palm repulsors to blast away at the encroaching enemy, but I felt entirely too naked in the heat of battle in nothing but Under Armor t-shirt and pants and one gauntlet.

Steve is holding his own, using that damn shield of his like a boomerang, hurling to towards the onslaught of gunfire from the baddies hunkered down behind their fallen debris barriers.

Bucky is downright frightening, and is making his way through his own opponents like a hot knife through butter. And unlike Steve, he's not morally opposed to lethal force. _Everything_ he touches becomes a weapon.

And then suddenly there's a yell of pain, and Steve seizes, engulfed in crackling electricity. He drops like a stone to the ground, convulsing under the current, any further yelling cut off as the electricity clamps his teeth together and men in black combat gear swarm him like ants.

Without thinking, I launched myself over the debris I was using for cover, completely forgetting I was nothing but an average human being at the moment. Something slammed into me, knocking me to the ground and bouncing my head off the concrete, just as something explodes over my head.

Combat boots are suddenly the only thing I see and I realize, way too slowly, Bucky just knocked me out of the line of fire, and was now beelining for Steve. I should move, but I can't make myself get up. Partly because _ow_ my head hurts and I can feel blood trickling down my face and partly because I'm too busy staring at Bucky.

I'd never seen him in action before. I was MIA during the entire fiasco with the Winter Soldier, Pierce, and world dominating HYDRA.

It was a thing to behold.

It was beautiful.

It was… _terrifying_.

He dodged fire without missing a step, vaulting off a ruined car to Superman punch one soldier in the face with his metal arm. He spins, using his own momentum to skid low on the ground, swiping the legs out from underneath another. Without batting an eye, he's got Steve's shield in one hand, blocking gunfire and whatever other electrified ammo they have (who knew vibranium was resistant to electricity) and smashes another soldier in the face.

I can hear the crack of bones from where I was.

From here I can also see the soldier that Bucky missed.

Before I can yell out a warning, the same violent burst of electricity encompasses Bucky's entire frame, but unlike Steve, he's disturbingly silent. He simply falls to the ground, shaking from the current.

It's gone silent. I can't even hear the sniper that was pinning down Clint and Natasha and I'm vaguely concerned that it's because the sniper doesn't have to worry about them anymore.

I should get up. I push against the ground and immediately fall back – something in my shoulder didn't appreciate the exploding rounds and suddenly face to face with the ground. Experience says it's not broken, but very, very dislocated.

There's more soldiers – apparently the ones we were fighting were cannon fodder. At least five more leach out of the shadows, weapons trained on Bucky and Steve.

Scratch that – almost _all_ are on Bucky. I can't even tell if Steve is breathing from where I lay. I blame the blood dripping in my eye, not poor vision. And it's definitely not because he _isn't fucking breathing_.

The lead soldier that shot Bucky is talking to him. I can actually hear him in the comparative silence in the absence of active shooting. He clearly knows Bucky and Bucky knows him. There's a personal level of hate in their shared tone and body language.

And he's talking in…German? No…Russian.

Did he just call Bucky… _The Asset_?

I feel my heart skip. Adrenaline surges through my veins and through sheer force of will I manage to push myself up. The repulsor is trashed though – I have nothing. A quick glance around and I don't even have a body to scavenge weapons from.

The soldier is still talking. Telling Bucky the Soviets have missed their Asset and it was stupid of him to think that he could escape. That he could be free. That he was looking forwards to having him back in the Reeducation Room.

Bucky visibly flinches at the word, noticeable even as he still shakes from residual energy, curled on the ground almost on top of Steve.

There has to be something. Someone. Anyone.

Fuck, I'll take _Loki_ , 'cause even if he was fifty shades of psycho, he was at least a decent distraction.

We have nothing.

We have no one.

And then I hear the soldier mention introducing Steve to the hospitality of HYDRA, and that room is mentioned again. How they wonder if Steve will last as long as Bucky. If Steve will be harder to break because he'll heal faster. That it won't matter, because it just means they can go longer without worrying about him dying, and it will be _so much fun_.

In a vague, detached way, it's something of wonder to watch that switch thrown. I can actually pin point when Bucky disappears and the Winter Soldier takes his place. It's like watching Bruce unleash the Other Guy – except this is all Bucky. It's all _human_. That anger, that _rage_ and _hate_ explodes like a hurricane, and the Winter Soldier is up. He uses Steve's shield as a blade and a sledgehammer interchangeably, and blood flies. Bones crunch. People die. And the Winter Soldier keeps moving.

The Winter Soldier slams it into the soldier's face and the man drops, blood spurting from his nose and his chin where bones jut out of the skin, as the Winter Soldier pounds him _into_ the pavement with his metal arm.

I can hear his knuckles starting to strike pavement.

Someone touches my arm and I flinch away, broken repulsor coming up without thinking until I realize it's just Clint. Tasha is just behind him. There's blood, but nothing worrisome. Apparently the absence of the sniper fire was the absence of the sniper himself.

"Should we get any closer?" Clint asked, voicing the problem at hand.

We need to check on Steve.

I am _not_ getting any closer to the Winter Soldier in berserker rage mode. Not without Bruce to run mediator.

Tasha shrugs her shoulder, and I can tell she doesn't envy going toe to toe with the Winter Soldier again. Not when it's something personal instead of professional that set him off.

I don't think they consider my vote, giving how my world is spinning slowly around me like a tilt-a-whirl and the rapidly disappearing adrenaline has Clint practically carrying me.

Steve moves. Slowly, with the occasional tremor still shaking his hand, but _thank God_ he moves. His hand claps down on the Winter Soldier's flesh and blood arm, and the Winter Soldier stops mid strike.

Steve says something, but we're too far away to hear the words and Bucky visibly deflates. And just like that, the Winter Soldier is back in his box and Bucky is here.

"Think it's safe now?" Clint asks, and before I can think of an answer, he's already dragging me towards Steve and Buck, Tasha following close behind, keeping an eye on our surroundings. She's the only one who hasn't dropped their weapon.

Up close, Steve looks awful, even if he is smiling tiredly. A small, tracker looking device is pinned through his uniform, and from the looks of the smoking remains, that was what caused the electrocution. I don't know if it simply burned out, or if Steve or Bucky crushed it, but it's obviously done for. Bucky's got one high on his chest, too, and I idly wonder if I have to remind him to get checked for orthostatic tachycardia when we get back to the Tower.

As bad as Steve looks, all pale and sickly looking (even though the color is slowly leaching back now that the device is broken), it's nothing compared to Bucky. Several weeks ago, Bucky had cut his hair back to the way it was in World War II, and he couldn't stand to have a mask over his face. Not even goggles. So there was nothing to keep the blood and bone fragments from splattering across his face, and none of it was his. He didn't look tired. He looked…shell shocked. His flesh hand grasped onto Steve's like it was a lifeline and it very probably was.

"Wow," was all Clint managed, looking impressed. "You're like a one man wrecking machine."

And they say _I'm_ insensitive.

"They were the ones who programmed me," Bucky blurts out. He looks almost as shocked as we do, and words just tumble over one another. "They wanted to take me back. They wanted to take _us_ back. They wanted to…to _reprogram_ me." He spits the word out like it has its own individual, awful taste, and it probably does.

It occurs to me, just then, that the shaking through Bucky's skin isn't from the electrical device attached to his skin.

Steve claps Bucky on the arm, a disjointed and awkward movement like his arm is asleep. "They didn't make you, Bucky. Pretty sure your mom and dad would agree with me."

I laugh without thinking. I know I sound like I've been drinking, and I sure as hell feel like I have a hangover, but I'm not used to Steve having a sense of humor. Especially a borderline 'that's what she said' moment.

"I'm sorry," I try to apologize, but it doesn't work when I'm still laughing. "That's a terrible thing to laugh at."

Clint snorts, trying not to join in, and Natasha is obviously above it all, and Steve has this funny little smile on his face like he's not quite sure if he's embarrassed he's stooped to my level or proud of the joke.

Even Bucky has a twisted grin on his face for a moment, as he hang his head in mock shame of his friend. Except then his hands clench into fists, and he slams his metal hand into the concrete. It cracks under the force of the blow, and we're immediately silenced. Tasha's gun rises momentarily, but it drifts back down when she sees it's Bucky reacting.

"They're not going to leave me alone, are they?" Bucky says, the bitterness so thick it's almost tangible. "They'll just keep coming after me until I'm dead or they capture me again."

It's not a question, and we don't have an answer.

But Steve does.

Thank god for Steve.

The punch to Bucky's shoulder is probably harder than most people could take, but Bucky hardly moves. "Don't be an idiot. You did something today you never did before, didn't you?"

Bucky barely looks up from his hands, still coated in the HYDRA agent's blood. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve says, struggling to sit up.

"And what's that, Steve?" Bucky asks, sounding world weary and exhausted.

"You _fought_ _back_."

Bucky's eyes go wide, and I wonder what horrors that poor kid went through, how hard they must've beat him down and how far he must've fallen, because fighting back is clearly a marvel to him. It had to be at least a generation of HYDRA agents since he last had enough of himself to resist. The new generation didn't know Bucky Barnes. They only knew the Winter Soldier as a voiceless puppet.

The same puppet that just obliterated an elite squadron of soldiers in less than a minute because they threatened his best friend.

Clint glanced around at the bodies. "Maybe you should've left one alive, you know, so they could go back and warn the others. Dead men tell no tales."

Bucky's eyes harden. "No. But they can send a message."

Tasha raises an elegant eyebrow and asks dryly, "And what message does this say?"

"That I will kill them all."


	4. Chapter 4

_Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds_.

Everything I created, everything I touched, turned the world to ashes. Even the things I created to help.

Heat vests for soldiers in winters made them into walking bombs.

Stimulants made to keep them awake and alert for days turned them into monsters that would just as soon destroy each other.

Most people can count their sins on one hand.

I need vaults to contain all of mine.

The only thing I managed to create that didn't turn to ruin was project Rebirth – and as Peg pointed out, I didn't _create_ Steve Rogers. I just allowed him to be the man he already was. Everything that made Captain America great was pure Steve, the boy from Brooklyn who couldn't stand the idea of bullies, no matter the size. Who stood against them no matter the odds.

I was jealous as hell. I have never been brave in all of my life. Instead of standing against injustice, I am always running away.

When Maria handed me my son for the first time, I realized that this was my chance. To actually put forth good into the world.

I wanted Tony to be better than me.

I needed him to be.

The world couldn't have two Howard Starks. One almost destroyed it too many times to count. Two of them would be the end of it.

When Tony was younger, I thought for sure he was taking after Maria. As a toddler he had a smile that could light up a room, and he babbled incessantly. He loved to be held, to be near anyone that would give him the time of day. He loved to play at the park and thought everyone and everything he came into contact with was his new best friend.

Jarvis and his wife always thought of him as their own, and I know Tony didn't mind a second set of parents, and they spoiled him rotten – not that we didn't have a jump start on them.

And then came the day he turned five, and I caught him in my lab playing with a box of spare parts and tools. I heard a crash and a bang and I was terrified he just managed to maim himself with something he shouldn't even be able to reach.

When I rounded the table, Tony looked up at me, a smile so wide I thought it would split his face in two and handed me a mechanical toy man.

It had a few bumps and scrapes and was clearly made by someone unfamiliar with small craftsmanship…but it was obvious it was Tony's creation. All the tools and scrap pieces were splayed out around him as he pointed out how the arms and legs moved, and how the tiny metal soldier was a super hero who was going to help me find my friend Captain America.

He looked up at me with such pride and confidence in what he was showing me, I couldn't speak.

He told me he wanted to be just like me when he grew up.

I should've told him good job. I should've told him how proud I was. I should've done a lot of things. But what did I do?

I panicked.

I broke the toy in my hands and forbade my son from ever going in the lab again, whether I was in there or not. And as I watched his eyes fill with tears, watched as he ran out of the room sobbing to his mother, I should've felt regret. I should've felt horrified that I had just crushed my only child's spirit as easily as the toy in my hand.

But I wasn't.

I was too terrified at the idea that my son was going to do exactly what he said – that he would grow up to be just like me.

I vowed it wouldn't happen. It _could not happen_.

Others would notice. Others would see the genius in him and they would see it a lot sooner in him than they did in me. I was too high profile, and not with all the right people.

The first time Tony was kidnapped, I thought it was for ransom.

When no letter came, when no phone call was made, I knew the ransom wasn't money.

It only took one phone call to Peggy and SSR was on the case. Three days later, Tony was safe at home, a little roughed up but bounced back with the resiliency of a six year old.

I was reluctant to leave him after that. For any reason. Jarvis no longer took Tony to the park by himself. Tony traveled with Maria and I wherever we went, whether it was for business of vacation.

The second time Tony was taken, I was only one room over. I slept through the whole thing.

It took a week to get him back, and several more to get him to finally sleep somewhere besides in the bed between the two of us.

Security doubled. Every person who entered the property was screened. Tony was no longer allowed to go to public school.

The third time they took him, I came home to find Jarvis bleeding out in the back yard from a knife wound, and Tony nowhere to be found. This time they left a message with Jarvis – they didn't ask for money because what they wanted was my inventions. And they were going to keep coming after the only thing I loved until I gave in.

HYDRA would _not_ have my son.

The only rational thing was to convince them that Tony _wasn't_ the only person I loved.

I loved no one.

I loved nothing.

My heart was made of iron.

I didn't send the SSR after Tony. I didn't stay to see how Jarvis faired after the hospital. I left the country. I went to Monaco. I went swimming and drank whiskey on the beach while my seven year old son was in the hands of monsters.

Two weeks later, and Tony was returned.

When I finally came home, he tried to run into my arms like he'd done so many times before, crying for his daddy.

I caught him an arm's length away, and told him to go wash up. We were Starks. And Starks do not cry for their daddies.

The next time they came, they came for me instead of Tony.

So I stayed away. I spent even more time searching the arctic for Steve's plane. I went on missions for newly named SHIELD. I became a founding member and eventually Peg and I were running the joint. I created the arc reactor. I went to charity balls and project meetings and foreign countries for diplomatic relations.

I pretended if I had enough to keep me occupied, enough to keep me away, it wouldn't hurt so bad.

Maria knew what I was doing. So did Jarvis. And bless them both, they let me. Maria didn't question why I was never home. Jarvis told Tony that it was just business.

I had pictures of every birthday. I had letters from every graduation. I kept finger paintings of Tony and mommy and Jarvis and watched as the paintings no longer included daddy. I read in the papers about his college graduation.

Time passed. I hadn't seen HYDRA agents in years. Peggy and I retired from SHIELD as co-directors. Tony was seventeen and pursuing another doctorate in electrical engineering and advanced intelligence systems. He could hold his own in a fight, and had done so on several occasion, much to the protest of his personal bodyguard, Happy.

We didn't speak much. The occasional phone call at Christmas. Form letters for birthdays. It broke my heart every single time Tony turned away, convinced as the rest of the world that I didn't care about him. But if that was what kept him alive…I didn't regret it. I had so many sins as a father, what was one more?

We were driving to the cottage on Long Island Sound. The fog was rolling in, and even the headlights weren't doing much to pierce the low lying cloud cover.

I almost hit him, standing in the middle of the road like that. His hair was longer than I remembered, his face gaunt and haunted looking but unmistakable.

Another one of my sins come to haunt me.

Bucky Barnes raised a rifle, headlights reflecting off more metal than just the gun, and I slammed on my brakes.

The pedal hit the floor without slowing us.

Maria screamed as I wrenched the wheel to the side, but the car barely moved.

Barnes didn't budge, and I braced my arms against the impact I knew was coming.

A horn blared, and blinding lights swept across the car's interior as I heard glass shatter, heard the squeal of tires and Maria's scream of terror. I felt bones give way as I was thrown across the front seat of the car.

Another impact from the other side sent us flying across the intersection, flipping us upside down as we scraped along the road.

Maria's screaming abruptly stopped.

I tried to find her hand with mine, but I couldn't feel my arm to move it. My head was jammed between the back of the seat and crumpled metal, and I felt blood dripping in my eyes. Pain radiated from everywhere, but the world was eerily silent.

Except the crunch of boots on gravel.

I could see the combat boots walk towards us, stopping right outside my window, and then Sergeant Barnes peered in through the broken glass.

"Bucky?" I gasped, choking on blood.

Barnes frowned. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

I didn't have time to ask. I had to apologize for the sin that lead me here.

"I tried to find him," I said, my words slurring so bad I wondered if he could understand me. "I looked for Steve. I couldn't…I couldn't find him. I swear I looked."

I see a light flicker in Bucky's dead stare, and I can tell he recognizes me. "Stark?"

"I tried, Buck. I tried, I tried…" I had to get him to understand that Steve haunted me too. That Barnes was not the only ghost to plague me.

That I didn't blame him for being angry with me.

There were voices, not in English, and there was a crack of metal on bone. Bucky collapses in a heap outside the broken glass.

Someone warned that the asset wasn't ready to be out. That it was a mistake choosing a personal target.

That same someone dragged Barnes's body none too gently out of my sight.

I'm sorry, sergeant. I didn't occur to me I should've been looking for _two_ missing soldiers.

It is another sin to add to a very long list.

Blood bubbled on my lips, and I can't expand my lungs anymore.

I am going to die.

The thought is confirmed when I hear a Russian order to leave us here.

My last thought is of Tony. I can picture him now, as that bright eyed child I loved more than life itself as he stands in front of me, asking me to come out and play.

And how his hate of me is what saves him from being in the car with us. It was supposed to be a family treat.

My sins caught up to me. And they have spared my son.


End file.
